Writers run dryer when their dreams wax dire, families fade and push them away. Nothing left for them anymore, nothing but sore skin where they're scratching their brains. Traces and stains of soft serene sayings, st-stutter and shatter, stay stuck locked in a safe where it's all right to be tucked tight children latched in a vice. Poets stuck in their heads know what that feels like. Locked up when you should be swimming in soft sleep, but tough, paranoia penetrates, sleep deprived ticks take you hours to shake, slumbers escaped until light takes night and nightmares shatter headspace. Waking up is a sweet embrace when you spend sleep reliving pains, remembering shouting and spit spraying from faces, feeble praying and echoes of voices saying "it's not the same" Thoughts flitting and flaying psyche from physical frame as trauma is replaying in the background of your brain. Fits of fear fraying sanity, filled with shame because of weakness and frailty, I'm a poet on the verge of insane.